In the meantime, Tom was doing his best. It was no easy task for him to pass safely through the Apache lines in the guise of an Indian. The redskins would be on the lookout for the return of their scout, and the ordeal through which he would have to pass would be a much more severe one than usual. But he was accustomed to desperate schemes, and ready for any sort of encounter. If discovered immediately, he meant to dash back again up the rocks; but if he could get any distance away, he would make a determined effort to elude his enemies altogether.
Following out his plan with the deliberation of a veteran, he stole slowly downward, consuming fully half an hour before he reached the base of Hurricane Hill. When, at length, he stood upon hard ground below, he was taken somewhat back by seeing no one near him.
"That's queer," he said; "what's become of the skunks?"
He had scarcely uttered the words when a tall form suddenly appeared at his side, coming up as if he had risen from the very ground.
"Do the hunters sleep?"
This question was asked in pure Apache, and Tom, somewhat distrustful of his own ability in that line, managed to muffle his blanket up in front of his mouth as he replied in the same tongue:
"They sleep not."
"Where is their scalps, Mau-tau-ke?"
"On their heads."
The warrior was no more than ten feet distant, and from the moment the scout detected him he began edging away, the Indian naturally following along while these words were being uttered, so as to keep within easy ear-shot. Upon hearing the second reply to his question, he paused, and Tom, dreading a betrayal, grasped the handle of his knife under his cloak, and was ready to use it on the instant. But the Indian remained standing, while Tom, still moving away in his indifferent manner, soon passed beyond his view.